Angels Are Watching Over You
by SesquipedalianSerendipity
Summary: Dean Winchester was four years old when a monster under the bed - something he's spent a lot of time not believing in - took away his mother. Now he has all new problems to deal with - like a time travelling machine and a man who can tell him what he had for breakfast by looking at his shoes.
1. Goodbye Alaska

**Goodbye Alaska**

Dean Winchester stood outside his flaming house, holding his baby brother, and watching his father try not to cry. Sammy squirmed slightly in his arms, but hadn't made a sound all night, not since Dean had run into his brother's room to find – well, at least what he _thought_ he had found – his mother attached to the ceiling, and fire – everywhere. He remembered going to Alaska for New Year's last year – they had a house at Lliamna Lake – when he had accidently fallen through the ice. He hadn't been able to swim at that point in time, and his father had hurriedly pulled him out of the frosty water, bundling him up in his own jumper and carrying him inside, where his Mom had given him a hot cup of hot chocolate and put him in front of the fire. Sam hadn't been born then, and the three of them sat on the carpet, warming themselves up, and when it was time for Dean to go to bed, his Mom had read him a book until he fell asleep.

This was nothing like that fire. That fire had been nice, and Dean had always assumed that that was all there was in the world – his Mom, his Dad, and, ever since six months ago, his little brother – all one big happy family who went to Alaska for New Year's. This fire was like all of his worst nightmares put together. The heat was like nothing he had ever known, not even when his Mom served his dinner right out of the oven and he burnt his tongue, or when, in November, when it was just getting cold, he had burnt his hand on a baking tray making cookies with his Dad.

His Mom wasn't here. Dean knew, because he had searched the crowd what felt like a thousand times. He never even saw her come out of the house, and looking at his Dad, and the look on his face that Dean thought made it look like he might have just died, he guessed she wasn't going to either. Although he didn't quite understand what had happened, he knew, Dean knew, that nothing was ever going to be like that nice family trip to Lliamna Lake ever again.

Dean felt tears well up inside him, but shoved them back down. He looked over to his father, who was being talked at by a police officer. He saw his Dad's lips move, but heard no sound come out – even though his father wasn't that far away from him. His Dad was usually loud and playful, or at least had a smile on his face. The only time he had ever seen his father not at least smiling a little bit was when he had accidently dropped a vase on the floor, and it had smashed all over the place. His Dad had been okay, though, after Dean had apologised for what he had done. The look on his father's face now made it look like he would never be okay again, like all the vases in the house had been broken all at once. He still wasn't crying though. Dean suppressed his sadness. If his Dad could be brave, so could he. He looked down at Sammy, who was lying still in his arms now.

"It's okay, Sammy." He whispered, and looked back up at his Dad, who was now walking towards the two of them slowly. The police officers he had been talking to a moment ago were murmuring between themselves now, walking back to their police car. He looked up to Sammy's old bedroom, which he used to look out of and watch all the neighbourhood kids playing while he himself was holding Sam. It now blazed with golden light, which the firemen were barely containing. Dean didn't think he really wanted to be a fireman anymore.

"Hey, kids." Their father said as he reached Dean, slightly sadly, but trying to keep his voice light nonetheless. He knelt down, kissed Dean on the head, and took Sam from Dean, cradling him in new arms. Dean stepped back slightly, and felt their car, an old 1967 Chevrolet Impala (Dean had never really liked the car – he thought it was old – but his father seemed to like it). Dean looked up at his father, who turned back to him – he had been watching firefighters spray Sammy's window with a jet of water that seemed to Dean to be doing not very much at all – and nodded at his son a little. Dean nearly grinned, and pulled himself up onto the hood of the car. His Dad never let him do this. Their father turned back to the window, just in time to see a burst of fire, a small explosion that almost made Dean jump, and his Daddy cradle Sam just a little bit tighter.


	2. Lost

When Dean woke up in the car eight hours later, it wasn't the hum of the engine that had disturbed him. _Cold As Ice _by The Foreigners was blaring out of the car speakers, enveloping the entire car in what appeared to be pure noise. Sammy was crying in the backseat; it had woken him up too. Dean looked over to his father, who was gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly – apparently no one had said sorry for all the broken vases yet. Dean wondered if he would ever be okay. He still didn't understand why their Mommy was never going to be coming back yet, but hadn't quite found the right time to ask; it never seemed quite appropriate to bring it up.

What was appropriate to bring up right now, however, was the extreme volume of the car radio.

"Daddy." Said Dean, and received no response. To be honest, he could barely hear _himself_ speak.

"DADDY!" he yelled, and his father turned around to face him with a look of slight surprise on his face, and turned the radio down as he flicked his head between his son and the road. The car swerved slightly, and their Dad yanked the wheel right as the car straightened itself out.

"Yeah, buddy, what is it?" he asked, fully concentrated on the road now, and sounding slightly distressed.

"You woke up Sammy." Dean whispered. His father looked at him for a second, smiling sadly, and pulled over to the side of the road. Dean watched as his father unbuckled his seatbelt, turning the car (and the music) off as he did so. Dean knew that he should probably get out of the car too, and lugged himself out of his seat, walking over to his father's side of the car, where his Dad was holding Sammy, rocking him gently back and forth. He stood next to his father, who was staring into the woods which framed the side of the road for as long as the eye could see. Dean knew that they would end eventually, but he didn't know if it would feel like that if he were stuck right in the middle of them. Looking over at his father, whispering soft words to his baby brother, Dean had an idea that his Daddy knew exactly what it felt like.

"Daddy," Dean asked again, and this time, with nothing but a slightly awkward silence between them, his father looked at him in response right away, his eyebrows slightly raised as he rocked Sammy back to sleep.

"Where are we going?"


	3. A New Tomorrow

Sherlock Holmes lay on the sofa, staring up at the roof of his apartment. He was also muttering under his breath.

"Salt… Stic… No. Pencils? No. Hmm…" John heard as he sat at his computer, trying to work out if there was ever going to be a possible way to turn that into writing. Night had fallen on England, and not even the sounds of Mrs Hudson doing the dishes or making tea could be heard through the floorboards. John wondered if perhaps he should head home now; Mary would be waiting for him. He could imagine the smell of her skin beneath the sheets, private little thoughts entering his mind as he sat waiting for Sherlock to do something….

John shook himself, his eyes wandering subconsciously to Sherlock. He was deep in thought, thinking about the murder of Mrs. Naomi Barlett, a woman who had nothing in particular going for her – other her peculiar ability to be in two places at once; her work, on the way to a meeting, and falling out of a window to her death on the cold pavement below. John wished he knew what was going on inside Sherlock's head, but didn't want to ask in case he was here till morning.

John looked back to the computer, his eyes searching out the time at the top of the screen. Late. Too late. Tomorrow, November third, he had six patients to get through, and then dinner with his parents. _I really do need to go, _he thought, but just as he was about to say something, the date, November second, ran through his mind. He gasped.

"Sherlock." He said, and heard no reply. "Sherlock!" He said a little louder, and a pair of dark blue eyes glared at him questioningly. John could tell he was at least a little cross at being disturbed, but John ignored it, already reaching inside his shirt to find his phone, a silver Nokia N97.

"Sorry," John continued. "But, it's Novem –" He began, and Sherlock smirked, interrupting him.

"I know what the date is. Believe it or not, I can sometimes be sympathetic." He muttered, his deep voice seeming out of place in the silence that had been growing for the past few hours. John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock huffed under his breath. "Perhaps, you should call one of them." He sneered, mocking his friend's apparently constant desire to be a good person. John was already punching in the numbers, of course, not bothering to reply. He shot Sherlock a look as he pulled the device up to his ear. Even from across the room, Sherlock could hear it ringing into John's ear.

"He – Yes, hello Dean, its John!" He said, turning back to the computer. Sherlock flopped back against the sofa, trying to return to his mind palace. Death. It was a funny thing, he thought. Grieving seemed to take forever, especially when it involved people. But why, he wondered, was it so important to remind yourself of things that had happened, to know each year that your mother, your dog, your secret lover was gone? "Yes, I know what the time is, sorry. I just wanted to make sure you're… sorry? You found it!?" John exclaimed, and Sherlock tore himself from his thoughts. John was looking at him, and even Sherlock felt he knew what they were talking about. He stood up. "Where? What's happening?" There was a silence then, and Sherlock watched John's eyebros furrow, as though he were concentrating. He pulled the phone away from his ear then, looked at it strangely, and put it back.

"Hello? Dean?" He said, and, after a few seconds, he pulled the phone away from his ear again and stared at it, as though it personally had been the reason that Naomi Barlett was dead. "He's gone." John finished, and, walking past Sherlock, flopped down on the couch, in almost the exact place Sherlock had been a few seconds ago. Sherlock, without realizing it, sat down at the desk, in front of John's computer.

John was thinking. Could this actually be happening? There was no way. Too much had gone wrong, and Dean was just one person… it was practically impossible. And after the issue in Baltimore…

"John." He said, and John looked up at him. "We have to… Call _him_, don't we?" "Will it reach him?" Said John, his face displaying slight shock at the thought of what Sherlock was suggesting, but his voice – and the fact that his hands were completely calm against his leg – told Sherlock John knew it was perfectly reasonable.

"It reached him last time, John, why would he change. There's no logical reason. He knows we need him. Don't be stupid." "Alright, I get it. You don't _always_ have to be so rude, you know." John said, sighing, getting tireder as tomorrow inched closer and closer.

Sherlock, as per usual, paid no attention. He flopped back down onto the sofa, the phone again almost exactly in between the two men. Sherlock could see from how tense John had gotten in the past five seconds that he was probably thinking the same thing he was. Who was going to make the call?

Sherlock stood up, and walked to the corner of the room, staring at the web of a crime map he had strung up on the wall, full of people, places, and yes, pencils. He sighed a little, and turned back to John.

"Well, you _are_ the mature one. _I _couldn't _possibly_ do it."

John took a far deeper sigh, and looked up at the back of Sherlock's curly head, which was bent over as he returned to his thoughts.

"Well, we better get this over with…" he nearly mumbled, and, rather apprehensively, Sherlock noted, reached for the phone.


End file.
